Page 56 of Ruthless Silence
Dio mio, he looks exhausted. Dark circles shadow his eyes, his usually perfect appearance disheveled.
"I'm sorry." My hands shake as I sign the words, the movements clumsy with desperation.
He shakes his head slowly, deliberately. No.
"I'm sorry," I sign again, more frantically. The words aren't enough, could never be enough, but they're all I have. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
Each repetition comes faster, my hands moving in violent apology. For the knife at his throat on our wedding day. For every cruel word, every moment of hatred I poured on an innocent man. For taking ten years to see the truth that was always there if I'd looked past my rage.
"I tried to kill you." The signs slash through the air. "Multiple times. I planned your murder while you sat in that chair protecting me. I called you monster when you were…"
His hands catch mine mid-sign, his grip firm but gentle. The contact stops my spiral, grounds me in the present instead of drowning in the past. His thumbs stroke across my palms, soothing the frantic energy, and I realize I'm crying again. Still. Always.
When my breathing steadies, he releases one hand to sign: "Nothing to forgive."
"Don't." The word tears from my throat. "Don't make this easy for me. I need to earn this. Need to deserve you after what I've done."
His eyes darken, and his signs turn sharp: "You think I want your penance? Your guilt? I want YOU. Fierce, unbreaking, choosing me not from debt but desire."
"Ten years I've been a blade aimed at your heart. Without that purpose, I'm just what? Another broken girl in your bed?"
His hands release mine to sign with violent precision: "The only girl in my bed. Ever. The only one who gets to break me and rebuild me with her hands."
"Who am I without revenge?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
"Who do you want to be?"
The answer comes without thought, without hesitation: "Yours."
His whole body goes still, that perfect stillness that means I've surprised him. Good. He deserves to be surprised by something other than violence for once.
"Not from obligation," I continue, my signs growing more confident. "Not from the contract or guilt or because I owe you everything." I step closer, close enough to smell cigarette smoke clinging to his shirt. "I choose you. I choose to love you. If you'll have me after everything."
His hands don't move. He just stares at me with those dark eyes that have watched me sleep for weeks, that saw me at my worst and protected me anyway. The silence stretches until I can't bear it.
So I close the distance between us.
My lips find his throat first, pressing against the raised scars with the reverence they deserve. Each mark is an apology, a promise, a confession. His breath catches as I trace the path of old violence with my tongue, tasting the salt of his skin, the proof of his sacrifice.
"These are my fault," I whisper against his neck.
His hands come up to frame my face, tilting my head back to meet his eyes. He signs carefully, making sure I see every movement: "My choice. Would choose again. Every time."
The kiss that follows is nothing like our previous ones. Not violent, not desperate, not about possession or claiming. This is soft, tentative, like we're learning each other for the first time. He tastes like espresso and sleepless nights, like all the words his scarred throat can't speak. His lips move against mine with a tenderness that makes my chest ache, and I taste something new in this kiss. Hope, maybe. Or forgiveness. Or just the simple recognition that we're both broken in ways that fit together perfectly.
When we finally break apart, both breathing unsteadily, I rest my forehead against his. "I love you," I whisper, the words I never thought I'd say to anyone, especially not him. "I think maybe I have for a while. I just couldn't see it past the hate."
His hands slide to my waist, pulling me closer with a gentle possessiveness that makes heat pool between my legs. I've been so focused on my pain, my revenge, that I've denied what's been building between us. Now, with truth laid bare, the desire crashes through me like a tidal wave.
I roll to my knees before him, my hands trembling as they reach for his belt. His breath catches, and when I look up, his eyes are blazing with heat and question.
"Let me," I whisper. "Please."
He nods once, a sharp jerk of his head that betrays his control slipping. I fumble with his belt, then his zipper, my inexperience obvious in my clumsy movements. But he doesn't rush me, just watches with those dark, patient eyes that see everything.
When I finally free his cock, I can't help the small gasp that escapes me. He's enormous, thick and long and intimidating. I wrap my hand around him, amazed at how hard yet silky the skin feels, how my fingers can't fully close around his girth.
"I've never…" I admit, looking up at him.
